The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  His rejection of the former plan did not matter now. Connor had turned from the path irrevocably. Gold was no longer the issue. The issue would simply be to make it back to Massilia alive. With every step east there was less chance of that. What a fool he was! Dania forgive him – for her one chance of deliverance was taking the most reckless chance of his life. Connor’s heart pounded, and he gripped the hilt of his spatha for what slim reassurance it could offer.

  And yet, what else could he do? If he had gone on towards Massilia alone, he may very well have been turning his back on everyone he had come to know, and even love in this past year. It was one thing to forsake his friends when he ran away, leaving them to the uncertainties of their lives; but it was quite another to leave them to the certainties of their deaths. Connor realized last night as he gazed at Arastan’s prisoner struggling against the men who had raped her, murdered her family, and stolen her future that he could never allow the same thing to happen to Lucia. As his troubled mind turned it over and over again through the dark night, with the patterns of his thoughts melding together with the nightmares induced by fear, guilt, wine, and pure exhaustion, he realized that not only could he not abandon Lucia to these killers; he could not abandon Lucius Montevarius to them either. Even though these resolutions failed against every practical argument he tested them with, they stood in his heart. He would not let Arastan and his men hurt Lucia, Lucius, or any of the slaves – not only because it was a matter of right or wrong, or because of his oath to the Dominus, or as some attempt at restitution for slaying their kinsman and heir – but because it was a matter of honor. This imperative became what Connor’s people called a geis – a personal rule placed on a man by spiritual powers well outside of himself that could not be disobeyed. Here was his geis. Here was his mandata. He must protect the family of Montevarius until these violent barbarian fugitives passed by.

  “Increase the pace,” Valia called. “It’s time to start catching up with our friends.”

  The twenty remaining warriors hastened, matching their leader almost immediately. Connor was again impressed with their discipline as he and his horse – untrained as it was for war – struggled to fit in smoothly with the column. Connor had always heard that the barbarians were undisciplined and haphazard fighters, all brute strength and ferocity but no finesse. Whether because of their Roman training and experience fitting into Roman battle plans, or because of their native ways of war, these Gothic cavalrymen seemed to not fit that mold at all. Their appearance may be rugged with their long hair and big frames; but their maneuvers were well-synchronized, their skills well-honed. He had seen just four of them in action yesterday, and they had acted with great cohesion, moving like a wolf pack amidst their enemies. Connor realized that though Arastan was playing the brigand, that he and his men were probably equally trained, experienced, and dangerous. Arastan also had about twenty men. But the numbers did not matter – Valia had no intention of engaging Arastan in any type of fighting. They may be rivals – a state of affairs that Connor had found easy to exploit – but they were not technically enemies, and neither were their men. No. If Connor was forced to draw iron on Arastan he would probably be on his own very soon. Worse yet, though he had practically orchestrated Valia’s own plan for this day, he really had no idea how these men would act when they did intercept Arastan. Connor had to admit that in his attempt to come as a shepherd to an imperiled flock he was bringing more wolves with him.

  Miles that Connor had dragged himself over, weak and tired, just the day before passed quickly now. The horses were starting to lather in the noonday sun, despite the crisp breezes from the mountains. The pace never slowed, and Connor knew that they must be not far behind Arastan, who was travelling without really knowing where his prize might lie. Travelers that they passed on the road lowered their heads and got out of their way. Some even attempted to take cover. He spied two or three small groups of men that appeared suspicious, as if they could be robbers (or perhaps cruel men seeking out their runaway slaves, Connor thought bitterly) but faced with Valia and his fearsome Visigoths, even these men dropped their gazes and gave them wide berth.

  “How much farther is it?” Valia asked.

  “I do not know,” Connor answered. “I started out when it was nearly dark. I think I walked for a total of sixteen hours.”

  “Then Arastan should reach the place at about the end of the meridiatio,” Valia said after silently calculating for a moment. “That is perfect for him, as everyone will be in central locations and should be taken by surprise; making them easy to control.”

  The picture Valia’s words put into Connor’s head chilled him. He thought of all of his friends, caught unaware by a group of armed men bent on violence. He could envision beautiful Lucia looking out into the courtyard as Arastan forced his way through the doors. Dear God, let his actions be enough, he prayed. Let him preserve at least something. But the ludicrousness of his plan was quickly becoming apparent.

  “What kind of fool gets back on the road in the dark, especially alone and unarmed as you were, my friend?” Valia asked. As usual, the tone was friendly enough, but the implication of distrust was clear. Connor felt his guts twist even tighter as he once more compounded his lies.

  “The rich man denied me hospitality. He refused to even let me sleep in one of his barns. For honor sake, I could not sleep outside of his wall like a beggar.”

  “You should have gone to the house of a poor man first,” Gaiseric offered. “They would not have judged you, but probably given you a corner of floor in exchange for some work. Unless they had a pretty daughter, of course. Ha! Perhaps these days there are enough young widows in this countryside that you could have found a better arrangement than that! Instead you chose to walk half the night.”

  Connor forced a smile as Valia and Gaiseric chuckled at his expense.

  “Well, this rich man will certainly regret his harsh dealings with you now,” Valia said. “What did you say his name was?”

  Another difficulty. Between the villa of Montevarius and the crossroads, Connor had seen no other estates of much significance. Connor knew that Lorentius’s friends that had followed him into death had been the sons of petty landholders – just wealthy and aristocratic enough to meet Lorentius’ approval, but not rich enough to provide the one-stop treasure troves Arastan was targeting. Their properties would not have made the same type of oasis for the several hundred Gothic nomads Arastan was hoping to support after he had taken his cut. Based on what Connor had seen from the road and heard from his months on the estate was that there were really only two such places in this immediate area. Those were the estate of Lucius Montevarius; and the bigger, even better endowed estate of the reprehensible Paulinus Effacus. Which one of these Arastan discovered first was purely a matter of chance at this point. Presumably, since the prime directive was to move the whole group east as quickly as practicable, the foraging parties would not take the time to plunder both. But if Connor gave Valia a name that turned out to be wrong, it could complicate matters later.

  “I do not remember. It was hard to catch it. Lucius Paulinus, or something like it.”

  Valia shook his head.

  “Connor, my friend, if this plan works out tonight, and I am sitting around the fire with you – good wine in our goblets and new gold in our pouches – then I will forgive you for your many oddities.”

  Connor tried to return his benefactor’s patient smile, appreciating the implied message that the converse was also true. He turned his head to see Tuldin staring at him, the usual unreadable expression on the Hun’s scarred face.

  The cavalrymen resumed their silent vigil, and Connor returned to his musings. It had occurred to him during the night that the most expedient solution to his problem would have been to bypass Valia altogether and present himself to Arastan, telling the greedy young warlord about the wonders and wealth of Paulinus Effacus; thus detouring them away from Montevarius, and perhaps saving Lucia from her unwanted betr
othal when the Goths murdered that insufferable son of his. But that route was far too ruthless for Connor; though the real reason it had been swept off the table was because Connor thought of it after he had already acted. By the firelight, with emotions stirred by the wine and the victory of that day, and with fresh offence given by Arastan, it had been an easy matter to recruit Valia and his followers. All Connor did was tell them of the wealthy estate that he had seen, and that Arastan would have first picks on the very next day. Gaiseric, Henric, and Valia did the rest, working each other up into almost indiscreet enthusiasm. Soon they had a plan to catch Arastan in the act of thievery, to restrain his bloodthirstiness, and in essence spoil his fun. They would get a choice bit of the plunder on their own, and steal some of Arastan’s credit with the people. Connor had not sold anyone out, he told himself. Arastan would go where fate led him; Connor was only seeing to it that he would be there too. If they came to Paulinus Effacus, Connor planned to simply ride away. Obviously, if they came to Lucius Montevarius, the Dominus would lose much of his wealth. A bigger blow yet, he may lose much of his wine. But if Connor could somehow mediate between them and if he could influence Valia to restrain Arastan’s violence, then he could save the lives of Lucius, Lucia, Philip, and the others. Connor sighed – there were far too many variables, far too many “ifs”. Was he not more likely to fail completely? Or to perhaps even wind up exposed and back in slavery? And how could he face Lucius Montevarius or Lucia after striking Lorentius down like a dog in the road? Would Valia not see the runaway slave, and beautiful Lucia not see the fresh red blood on his hands? What a hopeless measure. What a fool.

  All at once they were there. Connor recognized the trees, the bends in the road, the slope of the ground. When they rounded the corner they would see the first glimpse of the walls, and the willows by the iron gate. His heart began to race. His breathing quickened.

  Valia brought his hand up and the column halted. The tall, blonde-haired warrior turned to his men.

  “Arastan is close.”

  XVII

  At first view the estate appeared normal for an October Sunday afternoon. Connor strained his ears for the sound of the turmoil he expected to find within; but he heard no clash of iron or screams of panic. But as the column of horsemen approached the outer walls of Lucius Montevarius’s estate at a quick canter they saw that the gate lay open on broken hinges. Forgetting his play of innocence – as well as his caution – Connor spurred his horse and took the lead; entering once more the place that for so long had been both prison and home.

  The shaded boulevard was deserted. There was no sound of work in the adjacent vineyards, no smoke easing from the chimneys of the workshops, nor were there the calls of children at play. It was as if everyone was simply gone.

  But then, as Connor reached the top of the first rise, he spied a horse trudging, fully tacked but riderless, through the tall grass. The horse was not one of the Gothic mounts – the bridle was unadorned with lucky amulets, the saddle devoid of arrow quivers or saddlebags. Slowing his own mount, Conner rode over to the animal.

  His horse almost stepped on the pale body of an eviscerated man lying in the grass. His dead eyes met Connor as the Hibernian reached him. Connor gasped and instinctively drew his sword. Sensing his fright, Connor’s horse reared on its hind legs. Connor struggled to control him. The dead man was one of Lucius Montevarius’ bucellarii. Connor had spent many a day under the man’s wary eyes. Now he was slain by Arastan’s brigands. The villa was under attack, and Montevarius and Lucia were in mortal danger.

  Connor spurred his horse on towards the villa. Still silent, Valia and the other riders followed him. But unlike the Goths – ever vigilant and accustomed to the ways of war – Connor had abandoned his caution. He had only one thought – reach Lucia before Arastan. Heeding his urgency, his horse outpaced the others, kicking up the white gravel on the road as it climbed the central hill towards the villa. If Valia called to him to slow, Connor never heard him. Ahead were the double doors of the arched entrance to the villa, and they too were swung wide open. He risked a glance to his left and to his right, using the vantage point of the elevated ground to see the rolling hills, vineyards, fields, arbors, and lodges of the estate. Still there was not the fire and clash of weapons he had expected to hear if he had been too late. Instead there was nothing but a desolate silence.

  He pulled his horse to a halt at the open doors. He jumped out of the saddle and released the reins without a thought. Now he began to hear the commotion from within the walls, the clamor of harsh voices and the mewing pleas of victimization. It was a macabre music he had heard too many times before. Gripping Archangel he rushed inside.

  Connor passed through the dim foyer and into the light of the courtyard. Suddenly, he nearly tripped as his foot caught on a fallen form. Recovering, Connor stooped down and rolled the body over. Themistocles, an old Greek slave who served as one of the butlers, stared vacantly at him. Connor closed the man’s dark eyes and laid his head down. His eyes were drawn to the single sword slash across the man’s belly. Last night Arastan had told Valia that he was only killing men who resisted. The lie now lay at Connor’s feet – Arastan’s raiders were killing whoever they pleased. Maybe they would kill everyone who did not offer them a profit. His face flushed in rage, but as he looked up into the courtyard his blood again ran cold. Ahead, at the base of the cherry tree another form lay. Connor ran to it, knowing what he would find.

  The man lay in a heap, his face down on the flagstones. Red blood, still warm, spread out from under him and covered his hands. He still held an old gladius in his right hand and an olive branch in his left. He lay now where the Master of the House would have stood to meet the threat – with an olive branch for peace and a sword for strength. Connor knew that there would have also been a bribe, a peace offering of gold or some valuables, but that was taken now. He lie alone, the villa’s few bucellarii already killed or fled, the heavy lifters scattered looking to their own interests. Connor turned the man over and looked down into his former master’s deathly white face.

  Lucius Montevarius opened his eyes.

  “Connor?” he rasped.

  “Dominus.”

  “Connor!” Lucius hissed, dropping the gladius to clutch Connor’s wrist. His hazel eyes, clouded only a second before, grew bright with urgency.

  Connor could feel the warm blood that seeped from the open wounds reach his pant legs. He could hear the air rattle in and out of the Master’s lungs.

  “Do not worry, Dominus,” Connor urged. “I remember my oath. I will protect her. I will see her restored.”

  Lucius seemed to want to say something, but his eyes grew cloudy again. His mouth opened twice, but no words formed.

  “The souls of all men are immortal,” Connor quoted “but the souls of the righteous are immortal and divine.”

  Through the blood, Lucius smiled and seemed to nod his head once. He closed his eyes, but his grip on Connor’s hand tightened. And then he was gone. Connor lowered Lucius’s head and drew the Master’s mantle over his face.

  Fighting back the torrent of emotion that surged, he stood to his feet and sheathed his spatha. He strode forward into the length of the courtyard, knowing what he would find, knowing what he must do.

  The ornamental trees in the courtyard where full of autumn gold. More leaves drifted down and gathered at their bases or on the bright stones of the mosaics. Three birds flittered by, stirred from some nest in the rooftop perhaps. Before him he could see four of Arastan’s men, as yet unaware of him. He could hear or sense more off in the rooms to the side. He could hear the screaming of women in the kitchen; women that he knew. He could hear the pleading of old men, domestic slaves bargaining for their lives or imploring the thieves not to destroy too much. Connor was aware of everything. He knew that Valia and the others would even now be reaching the doors of the villa. He knew that they would enter much more cautiously than he had, for they had come to restrain Arastan and not to
make needless confrontation. But Connor had only one purpose left in this place; and as the door of the upstairs northeast corner burst open, he saw her step out into the sunlight and the chaos.

  Lucia walked forward, a captor’s grip on her raven hair and a knife at her throat. She wore a white linen dress, giving her the look of a bride or priestess. Connor saw that instead of finding a knife to protect herself with she loosely gripped her ivory athame. Had she been in her room casting spells of protection over her house, praying to Isis instead of looking for an escape? As she moved forward, two other Goths flanked the first – tall men, chain mail glinting, swords naked and bloodied. But Lucia moved stoically forward on her own power, her eyes ahead and full of quiet bravery. She held her head high as a noblewoman, unflinching at the blade that rested there.

  But suddenly Lucia looked down into the courtyard bellow and saw the fallen form of Lucius Montevarius. A great scream erupted from her chest, and as the men pushed her from step to step, she began to weep.

  “Lord Arastan!” one of her captors – a man of about thirty, with squinty eyes and a patchy blonde beard – called.

  Arastan emerged into the courtyard within seconds. The tall youth had a look of maniacal glee on his gaunt countenance. Hair hung in his face, matted by blood spray. His sword was drawn, and he held a nearly-full leather sack in his other. As he saw Lucia he dropped the bag. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Lucia’s captors threw her to the ground. She landed hard on her hands and knees, her athame sliding out of her grasp. Instantly, Lucia jumped to her feet and ran for her father; but the blonde-bearded man grabbed her and slammed her down again.

  Arastan stood in front of her, and as she tried to stand again he grabbed her by her hair and slapped her across her face. Lucia spit at him, evoking another brutal blow. Again grabbing a handful of her thick hair, Arastan pulled her to her feet, then spun her by her shoulders and forced her down over one of the heavy ceramic urns.